


the shape of things to come

by thelivingautomaton



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Character Death, Cliffhangers, Don't worry he gets better, During Canon, F/M, Ghosts, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Stories are Important, Tags Are Hard, Time Travel, Unstuck In Time, also lots of time and writing metaphors, more to be added later likely, we're all over the place in the canon folks!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelivingautomaton/pseuds/thelivingautomaton
Summary: “We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories...and those that carry us forward, are dreams.” Or: H.G. Wells dies, and then he returns. What happens in between is where things get complicated.





	1. this last embarkation into the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> hi lovely readers! so I've actually been working on this story for a whopping two years, on and off, ever since the epilogue video first came out. unfortunately my free time and mental health have both wildly fluctuated in the time since then, but I'm returning to this project to hopefully complete it, motivated by the #shipwreckedfive challenge! I'm also dividing it into chunks/"chapters"; the next two are already complete and will be posted in due time, and the entire thing should hopefully be done before November 9th (no promises though, I'm hella busy and procrastinating on an exam tomorrow as it is). please enjoy!

He knows that he is going to die as soon as Lenore disappears from view, leaving him alone in the attic.

Actually, that’s not quite true. As Lenore’s ghostly form fades, still holding the caméra, he is not thinking of his own impending doom. Rather, he ponders the question that she’d asked him ( _"_ _Is it just one filter?”_ , her voice curious and just a little sly, like she already had ideas for _other_ filters), and the way she’d kept her eyes entirely focused on the object in her hands, and how she’d responded to his queries with half-attentive answers. Because she was concentrating very hard on remaining corporeal, no doubt, but -- but also because she took an _interest_ in what he’d invented, surely. There could be no other reason that such a, such a -- well, _Lenore_ \-- would choose to spend her time with him. Because she was interested, and because the rest of the group had insisted he be accompanied, and because she was in no danger of being murdered herself. Certainly _not_ , he tells himself, because there is any deeper significance to any long looks, or mutual small smiles, or -- or anything of that sort that may or may not have taken place.

But still. It has been such a long time for him since anyone’s taken an interest. A _real_ interest, that is, not a “laugh uproariously because the idea of time travel is so _silly_ ” interest. Lenore hadn't been wrong when she'd guessed he was used to being embarrassed (she _is_ indeed a good judge of character, he notes -- something to keep in mind for the future). Yet he doesn't feel that way when he's with her; or rather, despite all his fumbling sentences and awkward gestures, and despite her seemingly having a scathing retort for every occasion, he does not feel she disapproves of _him_. Certainly she teases, but softly -- gentle and knowing nudges, as opposed to the stabs of acerbic wit she habitually offers the rest of the party guests.

It’s not something he’s ever quite experienced with anyone else -- the light and easy conversation, the comfort of being alone together, the “making jokes”. But, as a scientist and an inventor, he knows that it is his duty to fully explore the mysteries of the unknown.

Besides, he rather likes it.

And he finds himself thinking, briefly, _For my next project: something to strengthen spectral energies._ Something that could help her, as she’d helped him. Something that would, perhaps, let him see once more that rare jewel: her genuine, unironic smile.

He looks on the spot where she vanished, the (if one will excuse the pun) ghost of a smile on his face as all these thoughts flash through his mind, quick as lightning -- quicker, even. But he pushes them away when he remembers once more that he really _should_ be working. (And that’s another new experience to add to the list: for someone whose thoughts tend to race from one topic to the next, it’s not usual for his mind to linger this long on one subject, returning to it over and over. Except the subject in question wasn’t very _usual_ at all, was she?)

He pulls out his pocket watch to check on the time. It is ten minutes to midnight. _Midnight_ , he thinks, _a foreboding time indeed on a night such as this_ \-- and then he realizes, fully, that he is completely, entirely alone in the attic. And that is when H.G. Wells knows he will die, and that it will happen soon, and that there is nothing he can do about it.

He looks up from his watch, out into the empty attic space, and he says the only thing that comes to mind, which is, “Oh.” A small pause, and then: “... _crumpets_.”

And then he returns to his work.

This is what he knows:

He knows he will die because he is a writer, and though neither tales of mystery nor horror are his livelihood, he is familiar enough with the works of Ms. Christie and Mr. Poe to recognize key tropes when he sees them. Key tropes such as: the murderer is always the one you least expect; something dark and terrifying always happens at the stroke of midnight; and when someone is left alone, they always, _always_ meet with a gruesome end.

He is trapped within the walls of the story, and those walls are closing in fast, and they are without mercy. So he knows, realistically, that there is nothing to be done, nothing that can save him.

But he also knows this: he _is_ a writer, above all else in life (and perhaps in death, too), and what do writers do in a moment of catastrophe? What do writers do when the laws of storytelling are stacked against them? What do writers do when faced with the grim, cynical specter of reality?

They write, of course. And writing is a form of inventing, yes, which is simply another way of saying it's an act of creation, of facing down darkness and chaos and sheer nothingness and crying out to them all, _No_. Writers write to save others, and writers write to save themselves. He knows all of these things, and though the situation is hopeless, he hopes anyway. He wouldn't be a writer otherwise.

So he works feverishly, fingers and thoughts and mechanical bits and bobs all flying and blurring and coming together, _really_ coming together into a cohesive, coherent, functioning whole. He can see it in his mind’s eye: turning the final screw, flicking the final switch, and looking upon the screen -- with Lenore there, she’d have returned by then from placing the caméra on the weathervane -- as the murderer is finally revealed. This is all he desires, for now; this is all he can envision, all he _wants_ to envision for the immediate future. And as both a writer and an inventor, he excels at taking what his imagination conceives and transforming it into reality. All he needs is time.

Time, of course, being the one thing he lacks. But engrossed in his work as he is, it’s no surprise that he forgets this, or that he chooses to forget.

And, indeed, the prospect of death has entirely slipped his mind when he hears the low _hiss_ from across the room. He doesn’t recognize it for what it is at first; it sounds almost like a sigh. A _familiar_ sigh, moreover. “Oh -- my -- is it --” he mumbles, his mind still three-quarters intent upon the finishing touches to the terminal. His breath hitches for a moment and he coughs, lightly, thinking _It must be the dust, I’m certain no one’s been up here for a very long time, didn’t I see feathers in a corner?_ But his mind returns to the hiss-sigh, so he says, “Lenore, is that you?” Because shouldn’t she be here by now? Who else from the party would climb all the way up here just to stand and be quiet and wait?

Who, indeed.

He steps back over towards the terminal, ducking under the rafters and coughing a little more now, and he remembers Lenore asking Edgar to hire a cleaning woman after they’d all found the bloodied body of Dostoevsky, because it seems now that everything reminds him, in some small way or through some minute detail, of her. _She’s evidently correct about the need to tidy up_ , he thinks, but he’s coughing too much now for it to be mere dust and rubbish; really, he’s finding it quite hard to breathe, is there something -- ?

But he doesn’t finish that thought, as he forces his goggles away from his eyes -- knocking over the terminal as he does so, silly Herbert, always so clumsy -- and looks death in the face. Metaphorically speaking, of course; there is no Grim Reaper here, no tall gaunt figure wearing the mask of a corpse, only a cloudy and formless gas slowly filling the room and obscuring everything in sight. But he knows his own death when he sees it. Hadn’t he himself written it into being, not so very long ago? True, this smoke is white, and he’s positive (well, nearly positive, he supposes _anything_ could be the truth by this point) that the one using it is no Martian, but either way, it comes to the same result.

He turns his head, looking around the attic, trying to spot any last-minute clues, but of course there’s nothing, and there are already too-black spots glimmering and dancing across his field of vision, and he feels as though those same black spots are overtaking his mind, making it hard to think coherently, wiping out his brain one small portion at a time. He raises his arms, tries to grab at his throat and manages it with one hand. The other only grasps air for a moment, then catches a stray wire hanging from the ceiling, cold and sharp as it digs in. It brings him out of his oxygen-deprived daze for a moment, long enough to think _Will I really be alone for this last embarkation into the unknown?_ and feel a small pang of disappointment, before his feet twist out from underneath him and he falls with a _thud_ to the floor, still gasping for air.

But it seems some higher power has deigned to grant him a small mercy, because only a few seconds pass before he hears an ethereal _whoosh_ , and Lenore’s voice says, with no small amount of satisfaction, “Done and _done_.” Except it’s no mercy at all, he quickly realizes -- she didn’t arrive on time and now she has to watch him splutter and choke and die, and whatever higher power might exist certainly has a cruel sense of humor to inflict _that_ upon her. And this realization comes just in time for her to cry, “Wait, H.G.? H.G.!” with a note of worry and desperation in her voice, and how he wishes he could speak, tell her this is all fine, he’s going to be fine, all he needs is a little more time.

Time, that’s the key. She didn’t have enough time during her mortal life. He doesn’t have enough time to save himself. And they, the two of them, will never have time together beyond this horrific night -- no time to “hang out” as Lenore might say, get to know one another better, fan that spark of _something_ between them into what one could call a flame. They’re simply --

“Too late,” he wheezes out as she hurriedly steps over to him -- holding up her bridal dress so it doesn’t brush the floor, he notes, even though it’s incorporeal and can’t get dirty, because of course she would, because she still has her style even in a moment like this. He’s struggling to take in another breath when she sits down and puts her arm around him, bringing him closer to her, and that just makes him choke and cough even more, but it also feels...good. Her touch is light, and warmer than he would have expected. How fitting it is that his last earthly companionship be a ghost. A perfect ending to their tragic tale -- except, of course, that they didn’t _have_ a tale. That was what made it so tragic, really.

“H.G., what is it?” she asks, cradling him beside her, and there’s so much he could say to answer that. _I’m dying_ , perhaps, or _Don’t worry, everything will turn out aright_ , or even possibly _I feel something for you I’ve never felt for anyone else._ But instead he answers her broad question in the literal way by gasping, “The smoke.” Then, gesturing feebly through the hazy air towards the terminal and wires, he adds rather pitifully, “I can’t,” because it’s true -- he _can’t_ , in all respects. Can’t save the night, can’t reveal the killer, can’t not die. He can’t even finish his final invention.

His vision is fading, going dark, but he feels her hand at the side of his face, her fingers in his hair, and he supposes that despite everything, at least there is this. He only wishes he could feel it again, sometime. With the last of his remaining strength, he glances up at Lenore’s face. She looks beautiful, of course, and perhaps terribly sad, but mostly her expression is one of shock and confusion. Still, not very bad as last sights go, so he drops his head and closes his eyes, because it’s enough.

But evidently it’s not enough for Lenore, who stammers (he thinks it’s the first time he’s heard her not be utterly cool and collected), “But -- wh-what’s your real name?”

This is the one question he wasn’t expecting her to ask, and it takes him a second to recognize and ponder over it. He almost doesn’t tell her, except he thinks to himself, _Well, she might as well know_ , and besides, now is the time for honesty and openness, because there won’t be any other time after this. So he inhales, and he breathes out, barely, “It’s -- it’s Herbert, Herbert George,” sounding heartbroken but somehow satisfied, because he supposes he is, in both respects.

And it’s all dark now, everything is dark and he is fading away from the attic and his body and Lenore, but faintly, from very far away it seems, he hears a small, mournful voice say, “That’s a terrible name.” And then it’s gone, like everything else.

Thus, H.G. Wells -- renowned author, less-renowned inventor, and one-time dinner party guest -- dies.

But another rule of stories is this: they never end quite when one expects them to. There is always more to tell, more to say, more to write. Truly, stories never end at all.

So he dies, true, and then -- those are the key words, “and then,” because they mean the story continues, _he_ continues -- and then --

And then there is -- this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo this is the part of the story I wrote all of two years ago :P I hope it's not too obvious -- the biggest difference between this and subsequent parts is probably the sheer volume of references to little lines and jokes in Poe Party proper, since I'd just finished watching the show and it was fresh in my mind. I really, really promise that this story will not just be purple prose recaps of a scene in the show that took five minutes. really.
> 
> the reference to H.G. having "written" his death of course refers to The War of the Worlds, where the Martians use black smoke to eliminate humans (thanks, Wikipedia!). I think this isn't touched on in the show proper, but Sean and Sinead are smart people, big surprise. otherwise, let me know what you think! chapter two will be coming soon :)


	2. an empty page

_Hm_ , he thinks, with some surprise at the simple fact that he _can_ still think. Not very _much_ surprise, however; he’d spent most of the night conversing with a ghost, so the existence of the great beyond isn’t quite the shock it might otherwise be. Yet still he had wondered what would happen to his own soul...

Then the momentary shock passes away, and what replaces it is his more usual, analytical thought process as he begins to process his new surroundings.

It was not _nothing_. And yet, it was a far cry from _something_ as well.

He thinks like a scientist, so he starts with what he can observe, with his own five senses. He doesn’t think about _what_ he’s sensing, about what actually exists _here_ (if “here” is a proper place, even), because he’s dead; it seems rather too late to get lost in the existential details. Leave that until after he’s established the facts.

So, a sniff: nothing noticeable. A wave of his hand in front of him: he certainly sees the hand, along with the rolled-up, slightly grubby cuff of his sleeve. He looks down at himself and breathes a sigh of relief to see that he’s still fully clothed, though it’s not as if there’s anyone around. He raises his hand again, checks that his goggles are still in place, and gives them a reassuring tap-tap with his fingers. He has his tools (which means, on one level, the goggles, and on another, his hands and eyes and brain), and therefore he can solve this. Even if “this” is the greatest scientific mystery of them all: death.

Yet it seems there is precious little to solve here in the hereafter -- precious little at all, in fact. He blinks, blinks again, and it does nothing to rid himself of the sight before him: the vast, empty, white expanse. No distinguishing features. No horizon in the distance. No walls, no ceiling, no -- he takes a quick glimpse down to his shoes and then sharply turns his head back up again, with a nervous gulp -- floor. It’s as if he now lives (he chuckles a little when he thinks the word, ignores the biting sadness behind it) in a world untouched by nature or man. A blank piece of paper. An empty page.

Something sparks in his mind.

_An empty page._

The spark jumps from thought to thought, stringing incomplete fragments of mental words and pictures, memories, together.

_It must be possible to come back, because Lenore --_ (Her face, when she spoke of her fiancé and his suicide: regret in her eyes, the tremor in her voice as she’d tried to scoff.)

_\-- but she had assistance in her return, she was called back by_ \-- (The medium, Krishanti, green-clothed arms waving about the room. The murmur of ghostly voices blurring together. Lenore’s fingers trailing in the air, just in front of the apparition of Guy, just before he faded again.)

_\-- he must find a way alone, find a way to get back to_ \-- (Those fingers curling through his hair, a light touch, and warm.)

_He is alone, but he exists -- he still exists -- he can still act -- he can still_ \-- (A boy, curled in bed, one leg in a cast splayed awkwardly in front of him, surrounded by piles of books. A notebook lies open in front of him to a blank page. There’s a pen tucked behind one ear, and he takes it in his hand as he looks thoughtfully down at the page. Absently, he rolls the pen between two fingers and glances away, out his window, to the night sky. It’s so dark outside, it seems almost as though the entire world outside his bedroom has fallen away, and there is nothing left. But he knows that’s not true, because, just barely, he can see the glimmer of stars. What could be out there, he wonders? What -- or who -- could be looking up at those same stars, wondering, just like him, if there was life beyond the world we know?

A light enters the boy’s eyes -- almost like a star itself, and yet something much more. And he turns his head back down to the page, and he puts pen to paper, and he begins to write.)

He frantically pats down his vest, sticks his hands in his pockets -- nothing, blast it -- then pats his vest again and feels something long and thin. Reaching his hand inside, he deftly plucks the pen out and grins like it’s Christmas morning, and this is the present he’s been waiting for. And it was, back when he was a boy, and it is still, and it always will be.

He looks around again, at the blankness surrounding him, almost screams with frustration -- of all the problems he thought he’d have when he died, he never thought not having _paper_ would be one of them -- but then the frustration is gone and in its place is the calm, reassuring, proverbial lightbulb of an idea, glowing with incandescence in his mind. He briefly sticks the pen in his mouth and holds it by the teeth while he rolls up the sleeve on his other arm. Then he takes the pen in his hand again and puts the point to his skin. _Terribly unhygienic_ , he thought, _but it’ll do in a pinch._

He starts writing.

“It began,” he murmurs to himself as he writes, in as small a scribble as he possibly could, “with the clock...running forward...Because time -- no, no, not right --” he scratches out the word, wincing a little when the penpoint accidentally pricks his wrist -- “because _spectral energies_ have interesting… and inscrutable...effects...on time. But…” He thinks about the other guests at the party, about the predicament they are all, as far as he knows, still in. “But nobody thought anything of it...gathered as they all were, in...the foyer…”

Bent down over his arm, he continues painting the picture: the high ceiling of the foyer, the intricate stair railing, Gothic arches over the doors. Perfectly Edgar’s style, from what he knew of the man. The remaining dinner-goers -- Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee, Charlotte Brontë, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway, and of course, Lenore -- gathered around his corpse. It’s an odd thing to think about, his corpse, but he carefully describes how he lies on the dark floor, not a soul giving him a second glance. How does he know he wouldn’t still be in the attic? Because he knows Lenore, or knows her a little better after their talk in the attic, and he just _knows_ she wouldn’t leave him up there by himself. She’d take him away from that place of death. He’s sure.

It makes his chest feel warm, that surety. Somehow, despite his own gullibility, he’d never laid that much certainty in one person before. But Lenore was different; she said exactly what she meant and did exactly as she promised, and somewhere under her ethereal white dress there was indeed a heart, no matter how she tried to hide it. He’d seen that, in the attic. He would see it again, he promises himself.

He sees her now, in his mind’s eye -- holding her dress up so it doesn’t brush against the floor, as she did when she rushed to him -- pearl earrings gleaming in the yellow light -- dark eyes flashing as she glares at...who would it be...Ernest? Charlotte? Perhaps --

He looks up from his writing as he tries to think, and she’s there. And so are the others -- and the foyer -- and everything, everything exactly as he’d written.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing about the Importance of Writing and Creating Things, have you noticed? ;P
> 
> this chapter's a bit short, I know, but I didn't want to spend too much time in the great void/afterlife. the "he is alone, but he exists" line is my tip of the hat to my all-time favorite line in literature, from Fyodor Dostoevsky's _The Brothers Karamazov_ : "I exist. In thousands of agonies, I exist. I’m tormented on the rack -- but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar -- I exist! I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there." Dostoevsky is seriously the man and I one-thousand-percent recommend you read his books ASAP.
> 
> other characters will appear next chapter, I promise. stay tuned, and I hope y'all enjoy!


	3. the rushing river that is time

He blinks once, twice, partially out of surprise and partially to ensure that the sight lying before him isn't some sort of fantastic mirage, a deceptive vision simply papered over that subtly harrowing (he can admit it to himself, now that it's gone) expanse of void. But the mirage doesn't disappear, though there _is_ something odd about it, something he can't quite put his finger on yet, and he's about to set the gears of thought into motion when a quick glance down to the floor offers at least one detail that seemingly confirms the fixed reality of his new situation, as well as providing a somewhat unwelcome distraction: his own corpse, lying directly at his feet.

Once again, the analytical part of his mind takes over, endeavoring to dampen the not entirely unexpected, but no less unpleasant for it, feelings that arise within him as he gazes at the last mortal remains of Herbert George Wells. He notes with a small sense of surprise how peaceful he looks -- curled slightly in a fetal position, eyes closed, almost as if he'd simply chosen to slumber for a spell upon the hard wooden floor of the foyer. (If he's honest, it wouldn't be the oddest place he's managed to fall asleep in -- it wouldn’t even crack the top five.) The only thing that breaks the illusion of tranquil rest is the fact that his chest -- well, his body's chest -- _dear me, this may get a tad complicated_ , he thinks, as if things weren't already complicated enough -- doesn't rise and fall, but only lies entirely still.

 _It's not just your corpse that's still_ , says the voice in his mind that H.G. has come to realize, over the years, is his intuition, one of his more favorable assets -- and one which he frequently finds is more perceptive than he himself. So he listens to what it has to say, and what he hears from himself is this: _Look around._

So he does, and he finally notices what he's been hearing, or rather, what he _hasn't_ been hearing: voices. The foyer has -- he does a quick count -- six living beings currently occupying its space (he counts Lenore and glosses over both his corpse and those of the two constables -- _did I really write that? Edgar’s macabre tendencies must already be influencing me; and after only a night!_ , he thinks), and yet, it is completely, utterly silent. And still. Not a soul in the room stirs, except for his own. It’s as if they’re frozen, simply stuck in --

“Time,” he whispers aloud. Of course. Of _course_. Time is the key, hasn’t he always thought so? His not-quite-imaginary tale may have broken through the barrier between life and death itself, but not so with the barrier between death and _time_. For after all, he’d only written of one particular, distinct moment, the one he finds himself residing in now: four living writers, a girl, and a ghost, all eyeing one another with suspicion, all surrounding the corpse of one dead writer. (And, he amends, two dead constables -- though their presence was still slightly puzzling, as he could swear he hadn’t written anything concerning constabulary, living or otherwise. But there are more pressing matters to attend to, and he pushes the question aside for the present.) For time to continue, all he must do is continue the story.

The trouble now, of course, is that he has no idea what to write next.

“ _Blast_ ,” he swears quietly, then looks guiltily at the unmoving faces around him, half of whom are ladies, and he would _never_ curse in front of a lady. (The fact that they can’t perceive him, let alone hear his voice, is absolutely irrelevant.) But it surely is a plight that calls for frustration, one that he’s experienced himself many a time, though perhaps not under quite the same set of circumstances; an enemy that, he supposes, all writers must confront during their careers…

Writer’s block.

He can let his disappointment and exasperation at being thwarted consume him; he can allow the emotions he has bubbling within him, which he’s so far kept a careful lid on via the tried-and-true method of occupying himself with a problem to solve, an invention to create, a story to write, pour out: desperation, bitterness, anger, grief. But he knows, with the experience that can only be gained through years of writing, rewriting, editing, crossing out, and starting anew, that this is not the way to defeat writer’s block. Indeed, there is but one way to extinguish writer’s block, and that is simply to wait. Wait for the lightning bolt of inspiration to strike; wait for the proverbial muse to sing.

He’s always hated waiting. And so he glances quickly once more around the now-familiar surroundings of Edgar’s foyer, and then, more deliberately, he casts his gaze from one person in the room to the next. Because there’s no harm in at least hurrying the muse along, is there? Even if he does have all the time in the world.

His eyes alight on Oscar Wilde first, and he supposes that’s exactly how the flamboyant author would like it. Oscar’s face is mostly amused, as always, and somewhat bewildered, which seems to happen more often than not (even if Oscar tries to hide it), and there’s a glimmer of something else in his deep brown eyes, something quite uncharacteristic of him -- uneasiness, edging on worry. Perhaps his secret is about to be found out? But one just can’t picture Oscar as a cold-blooded killer, and besides, the point is rather moot at present.

Ernest Hemingway is the next to catch his eye -- quite natural, as he’s standing directly to Oscar’s right, pointing an accusatory finger into Oscar’s face, eyes wild with suspicion and mistrust. Ernest certainly isn’t the sort of fellow he’d normally spend much time with -- though to be perfectly frank, he’d never spend much time with any of these people under normal circumstances; writer’s gatherings, until tonight, were never really his forte, even after growing used to those who laughed at his ideas of time travel and other dimensions. But of course, these circumstances are approximately as far from “normal” as the Earth from the Sun. At least Ernest never laughed at him (that he’s noticed, anyway), though he does wonder if that fire in Ernest’s eyes merely hides something much darker beneath.

Then to the left is Annabel Lee, contemplating Oscar with that intent, wide-eyed expression he’s seen her wear so often this evening, when she’s been lost in thought and paying close attention to what’s around her. He rather likes Annabel, despite never having met her before this bloody, grisly night; he likes her cheer and charm, her belief in the goodness of her fellow party-goers and her firm willingness to put her foot down and refuse to tolerate behavior she thinks is wrong. He thinks, perhaps, that they could have been friends, in another life. _Could be friends, still_ , he amends, _in_ this _life_. (That worm of doubt and fear, deep in his mind, begs to differ, but he’s well-practiced at ignoring its hissing words; all writers are.)

He shifts his focus to the opposite side of the foyer, where Charlotte Brontë peers at Oscar and Ernest with an attentive, if rather curiously blank air -- curious only because it’s one of the few times he hasn’t seen her sneering or scoffing at the other guests this entire night. He tries not to cast judgment upon others based on initial perceptions; he knows from reading plenty of novels (namely those of Jane Austen, though he’d be quite embarrassed to admit to the guilty pleasure of romantic literature) that this frequently leads to misunderstandings that can portend disaster. But from her first interaction with him at the party -- when he stumbled his way over to the table, setting his electromagneticooker (the name needed a little work, perhaps) gently on the dresser behind him before taking a seat next to her -- she’d given him the distinct impression of someone who disdained everyone and everything around her. And not just because she’d taken one glance at his contraption, rolled her eyes, and said to him, “If you were simply going to bring a _box_ , you could have at least bothered to bring one that didn’t look so _cheap_ ,” before proceeding to ignore his explanation of the electromagneticooker’s practical uses in everyday life in favor of reading her character card, taking delicate sips from her wine glass, and glaring at Ernest.

But he’d prefer not to waste his time, infinite though it may be, with pondering those who were quick to judge and quicker to scorn, so he instead turns to their eminent host, Edgar Allan Poe. His eyes are dark and brooding, as they always seem to be, and his hands rest on his hips, which seems to be a sign of his skepticism regarding the three people -- three _living_ people -- opposite him. Well, at least two of them; he’s seen the looks that Edgar’s given Annabel when she doesn’t see him (and even when she _does_ see him, he’s not a terribly subtle fellow), and only a fool -- or a fool who hadn’t read copious romantic novels -- wouldn’t recognize them.

And from Edgar, inexorably, his gaze is drawn to Lenore: dark eyes flashing, pearls in her ears and on her dress, precisely as he’d pictured her. And yet, seeing her in front of him, she is so much more...well, more _Lenore_ than he’d imagined in his mind’s eye. It’s very rare for him to lose his grasp on language, rarer still for that grasp to completely disappear, but it always seems to happen when he sets his eyes on her. He has no adequate words to describe her. She is simply Lenore.

 _“Beautiful” could be a start_ , a voice chimes in from the back of his mind. _Or “stunning,” or perhaps “bewitching,” if that’s not an objectionable term for ghosts_ \-- and he quashes that train of thought before it can go any further off the rails. But it seems his subconscious is destined to have the last laugh, because that last word, “ghosts,” echoes within his brain. Hadn’t he broken through to the realm of the living by referring to “spectral energies” and their abnormal effects on time? (He checks the scribbled, now slightly smudged writing all over his arm. Yes, he certainly had.) Perhaps the spectral energies that brought him here could, in turn, allow him to escape. But this time, it would take more than his own spirit.

For the first time since he’s arrived in the foyer, he moves, taking a step away from his corpse and towards -- who else? -- Lenore. He believes, with a bone-deep certainty, that her ghostly vitality can help him take flight, break through the dam between him and the rushing river that is time. He believes, with equal certainty, that in order to access her vitality, he has to touch her -- somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t matter.

A certain thought, entirely unbecoming of a gentleman and a scientist, dashes through his mind and zips away before he can even scold himself for it. But it distracts him for long enough that before he can think about what he’s doing, he finds himself standing not six inches from her, reaching out, and very gently laying his fingers on her cheek, with his palm cupping the angular point of her chin. For a moment, he’s shocked, because despite her frozen countenance, she feels warm -- as warm as her fingers had been when they’d softly caressed his hair. Then for another moment, he’s elated -- elated that he can still feel something, elated that he can return the favor and touch her as she’d touched him, elated for other reasons he can’t quite put a name to yet.

And then, not for the first time that night, something entirely unexpected happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! so unfortunately, it's looking like I won't have this fanfic finished by the November 9th deadline for #shipwreckedfive :( real life just got in the way sadly. however, I definitely intend on continuing to write it and finish it as soon as I can! thanks for your comments and kudoses btw, they make me very happy :) and I've adored seeing the submissions of everyone else -- it always makes my heart warm with how creative and inventive (lol) this fandom is <3
> 
> the "scene" that H.G. finds himself in is taken directly from episode 9, "The Sleeper", right after both the constables die, and involved quite a lot of me staring at everyone's faces to get their expressions down pat. I definitely think Annabel and H.G. would make cute friends, they're both very dorky. I also forgot if H.G.'s microwave ever got a proper name in the series, hence "electromagneticooker" -- if it did, my bad :[ finally, I leave it to you, dear readers, to determine what H.G.'s "unbecoming" thought was ;)


	4. the past comes into the present

“Apparition from another realm, _speak your name!_ ” cries a loud voice, sounding as if it comes from directly behind his ear. He blinks in surprise, and when he opens his eyes, he realizes three things: 

  1. The voice belongs to Krishanti, the psychic who had conducted the ill-fated seance in the study, hours ago, which means:
  2. He is in the library, hours ago, which means he’s traveled through time -- and therefore, _time travel is real._ Which in turn means:
  3. Ghosts can travel through time. _He_ can travel through time.



A wide grin spreads across his face, and he thinks that were his heart still beating, it would positively leap from his chest in this moment -- this euphoric moment where he _knows_ , with absolute certainty, that he was right all along about the existence of time travel. Of course he had _believed_ in time travel, believed with all his heart, but for a scientist, believing in something and having proof are two entirely separate things, and now he had the most conclusive proof of all: himself, acting as both witness to and medium of the accomplishment. He’d have to write about this, perhaps invent something to ease the passage of spirits back into the mortal, pushed-by-time realm, and he starts to reach for the pen in his vest pocket in order to scribble some observatory notes on his other arm when his subconscious spits his own word back at him: _medium_. Medium, like Krishanti, who had contacted the dead -- who _is_ contacting the dead, right now -- now?

And with that, he reaches a fourth realization, perhaps the most important one yet: the scene around him is still moving, still progressing forward. _Time_ is progressing forward. And the apparitions Krishanti had previously called are here too: indeed, there is George Eliot, almost transparent, speaking in a soft yet captivating voice, “Oh, may I join the choir invisible, of those immortal dead who live again...” as the astonished living onlookers watch.

He’s distracted for a moment by the puzzling lack of a mustache on Eliot’s face (perhaps there is no need to shave once one is a ghost -- that would indeed be convenient), and then he calls out: “Hello! Hello? Can you hear my voice? Krishanti?” He feels a tad foolish, breaking what he remembers as an eerie, hushed moment with his exclamations, but the feeling quickly disappears when nobody in the room, not even the psychic, turn their heads towards him; all eyes are on Eliot’s fading form, replaced by the elegant figure of Mary Shelley, who begins to proclaim, “Strangely are our souls constructed…”

Suddenly he remembers something else, and he quickly turns his gaze to the corner of the room by the drawn curtains, where he sees -- with a slight jolt of uncanny recognition -- himself, again, this time living and breathing. His past self is eyeing Shelley with some trepidation from behind Ernest, and he watches as, wordlessly, Ernest hands over the flask and he silently takes a swig. (His present self winces, recalling how the liquid had burned going down his throat. He really _had_ been a touch daft to think Ernest would keep water in that thing.)

Shelley’s voice dwindles, replaced by the gruff tones of Dostoevsky, recounting some bloody annihilation of the past (present?). He tries again to break through to the captivated living: “Krishanti?” And then, after a moment’s pause, and with a strange, entirely irrational feeling of hope in his heart, “Lenore?” Yet she fails to harken to his voice; it seems that this time, even her spectral energies are not enough to break this remaining barrier to life. But what _is_ the barrier? Time is passing, he is among the living -- what else could there _be_? The presence of his own living spirit (currently choking down Ernest’s alcohol as quietly as possible), perhaps? It could be that two of the same soul could not exist in the same time and space simultaneously; assuming that, he would have to travel through time again, only forward instead of back, in order to truly re-enter the earthly dimension, as he wishes. The question, then, is _how_.

How had he gotten here? Presumably Krishanti’s summons of the murdered writers had, too, called him from his frozen moment in time backward to this still-progressing one. But what could bring him to the future, under his own effort?

He hasn’t been paying attention to his surroundings, but now Krishanti’s voice, again, rings out: “Spirit -- speak your truth to us.” And he looks past the jade-clad clairvoyant to the final ghost of that night: Guy de Vere, Lenore’s dearly departed, proclaiming what he had proclaimed scant hours ago, attempting to deliver his vital message to the living.

“The past comes into the present,” Guy intones solemnly, and he’s drawn out of the moment again as he’s reminded of his own dilemma -- past, present, and potential future coming together, none of them under his own cogent manipulation. Then he sees Lenore stepping tentatively toward Guy, her eyes only on him, and Guy’s translucent gaze turning toward her as he continues, “The one...who couldn’t bring me back,” and he feels, with a terrible keenness, a black melancholy settle into the space where his heart once beat.

_Herbert_ , he thinks to himself, not for the first time in his life but certainly with the most bitterness he’s ever summoned, _you are a fool_. He doesn’t live within the confines of some romantic saga -- hadn’t his own murder proven that, beyond a shadow of a doubt? He and Lenore are not star-crossed _anything_ ; they’d barely known each other for more than a few hours before he’d been stolen away from her. He’d touched her once -- twice, if you counted that frozen second -- and he hadn’t spoken to her of his feelings (whatever those feelings might be) other than to admit that he could relate to her fiancé’s despair at her passing. And even if he is to return, fully, to living time and breathing space, surely she will not be there, waiting for _him_ to return. She’ll still be waiting for --

Charlotte sneezes, as she did before, and though all the living eyes in the room naturally turn towards her, his own dead eyes are still gazing at Lenore. Lenore, her fingers trailing in the air before the love of her life. He’s unable to see her face, and he supposes he is at least grateful for that small mercy, but he can see Guy’s pained, wistful expression as he regards his fiancée, just before he disappears. And he can see, as Guy fades from the study, that expression change once Lenore turns her head from him and towards Charlotte. Guy’s form is almost entirely transparent now, but he looks up, his eyes once more intent and steady, past Lenore, past all those persons currently occupying the room, straight at --

“Oh dear,” H.G. mumbles, and then he’s somewhere -- some _when_ \-- else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear readers, I sorely apologize for the long wait on this chapter -- I've had it written for awhile, but school and mental health had me bogged down so I wasn't able to post it until now. thank you all very much for your kudoses and comments though, they really brighten my day <3 the majority of this chapter comes from episode 6 of Poe Party, "Spirits of the Dead", which I of course take no credit for. as most of you probably noticed when the episode aired, Eliot, Shelley, and Dostoevsky's words are quotes from famous works of theirs (brilliantly inserted by Sean and Sinead). H.G. actually taking a swig from Hemingway's flask is my own invention, however ;P 
> 
> I know this chapter is another short one, but have no fear: the next one is _quite_ the doozy ;) and almost complete, too! though I'll be quite busy with exams and finals in the coming weeks so I'm not sure when I'll be able to post it. expect it sooner rather than later, though, my dears!


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